Fly When You Fall
by Miles2GoBe4ISleep
Summary: "Thank you, John." "What for?" "Not saying piss off." After watching episode three tonight I think we could all use a bit of a happy ending, better summary inside. Please give it a chance
1. Chapter 1

Ok I'm not necessarily proud of this but I have to admit just the first few minutes almost had me in tears! So I know there is going to be a lot of fics like this but I hope you enjoy it none-the-less. It's good closure for me writing this with a happier ending but still intense and emotional. We fans can lick our wounds together haha hopefully this will help .Also I wrote a good portion of this before actually watching it so there are some major differences, but still some SPOILERS. I'm also nervous this being my very first Sherlock story. Well here goes nothing.

…

It was surreal. Something you see in a movie or dream, but not right in front of you. He felt detached from his body, and numb, as if he were back at 221B reading about the event in the newspaper instead watching it before his eyes. He watched as Sherlock feel a tangle of flailing gangly limbs, that weren't supposed to move that way. Normally he was so graceful and agile now he saw him grappling in the air.

John wasn't sure how he got his legs to work again and get to his friend. The relief of seeing him still conscious was palpable.

"Sherlock, you idiot!"

"John…John?' He moaned confused and bloody from his little spill with gravity.

"What happened!"

"Well…"He started with much difficulty "You know what they say what goes up, and all that."

"How the hell did you survive" He breathed not accusingly or angry at this point as he was too flooded with relief to be busied with screaming at his flat mate.

"Must have…" He groaned in the middle of his sentence trying to get up, John quickly stuck his arms under his back to lift him at an angle so he could breathe better. His medical training had taught him to make the victim stay still after trauma or a fall but he knew Sherlock would still squirm and breathing was pretty high up there on the priority list. "I must have hit something on the way down which slowed my speed and there for decreased the impact of the concrete, how fortunate for the ground" was he joking, was he actually joking at a time like this? John thought irate, he wanted to throttle him, but of course that went against training too. He wanted to go off and yell, and ask him what they hell he was thinking but he pushed it to the back burner and took a deep breath. He needed to access the damage first.

"Sherlock…can you tell me what day it is." First the man in question rolled his eyes at this simple question, but then seemed to be confused with the effort of coming up with an answer.

"I never know the day" He dismissed.

"So the answer is no, you can't tell me." John sighed.

"Uff see I'm getting slow, it's probably best I'm dying now "

"Sherlock!"

"What? once my intellect goes not much left of me worth preserving is there" he laughed bitterly

"Perhaps they should be notified I'm not the best organ donor considering I have no heart… don't worry John you'll find some way to pay the rent"

"Shut up! Shut up!" They were silent for a long time each other staring intently at the other and in that un-breathable silence John couldn't help but let out a sad small laugh

"I fail to see how anything could be so funny at the moment and you thought I was being morbid" Sherlock quirked his eyebrow seeming almost put out.

"It's just…the great Sherlock Holmes was…wrong"

Sherlock flinched indignantly, "Pardon"

"You're wrong." John reiterated, the phrase feeling foreign on his tongue

"I got that the first time, thank you. But in what regard?" the injured man questioned impatiently.

"There is so much of you Sherlock Holmes; so much worth saving so much worth living. You're not just a man with a bloody brilliant brain. You have a heart, a huge one. One I can't live without. I need you and I know it doesn't make sense to you even I don't get it but…you're my best friend. We need each other; I'm nothing without my detective" Sherlock's eyes roamed over John's dissecting them for the truth.

"Thank you John"

"For what?"

"Not saying piss off." They both laughed with each other for a moment forgetting where they were and what was happening. It was a strained wiry nervous laugh and they both knew it but would never mention it. After a moment John realized the significance of what Sherlock had said, he had never been very good with sentiment or emotion so it was his simple cryptic words that held the most weight that meant the most. He was thanking him, for giving him a chance, for not leaving him, for being his friend. Sherlock; the man that had no friends, and weather that wasn't entirely by choice or not either way he had still picked John to be his friend, and that meant everything. He was not the heartless man everyone thought him to be, he felt just as deeply as everyone else, in fact he felt even more, he just didn't understand it like other people did.

Sherlock took a deep shuddering breathe; John could feel his back arch in his arms.

"I'm dying John." He stated as if discussing the weather, although for a brief second John thought he caught a glimpse of regret.

"No, no you're not" John didn't know who he was trying to convince more.

"Come now, you're a competent doctor. Considering the height and speed from which I fell and the angle I hit my head; statistically speaking I shouldn't be alive or not for much longer at least. Pulse slow and thready, breathing shallow, probably massive internal bleeding in the brain; explains cognitive issues, and most likely punctured lung, I can tell do to the difficulty breathing and angle at which my rib fractured. Now considering the distance we are from the closest hospital and taking in account the traffic at this hour even with people pulling to the side…I won't make it"

"Damn it Sherlock I won't let you die."

"I'm afraid that's not in your control." He struggled to get out between breathes. But John could tell he was trying his hardest not to let it show, Sherlock wasn't the type that died; it wasn't dignified enough for him, he was afraid to show weakness. They stared at each other challenging.

"Don't you want to ask?" He questioned suddenly.

"Ask what?"

"If they were right…about me, all of them" There was something undetectable in his eyes covered by the sarcastic and playful glint even though his panting.

"I don't need too. I know the truth. I'm not as dull as you make me out to be" John smiled at Sherlock and saw a rare genuine smile mirrored in his face.

"They all said I'd die alone…but I suppose…they were wrong…then again their idiots so it's too be expected" Sherlock panted his forehead clammy and fevered with the effort, his dark curls stuck wildly to it from the sweat.

"How did you manage it John?" The doctor stared at his friend his arms shaking, drinking up every word his friend said, willing him to keep talking. He feared if he blinked or breathed for a second he would disappear. He shook his head confused and not trusting his voice.

"To…be….my best…and only friend" John could feel his vision blur from the building tears and any other time he would be afraid to show them in front of his friend. Sherlock's eyes widened with the horror of not being able to breathe, he reached out a trembling hand and fisted it in the doctor's jumper.

"John…" He gasped as if he were trying to anchor himself to something.

"Sherlock" Johns voice grew with alarm when the man's breathing only became more labored and his icy blue pools of eyes shut tight.

"Sherlock! Keep breathing…Sherlock!" Then after the terrible panting and gasping, after the convulsing and pain…there was silence.

"Sherlock?" He started hesitantly until his voice rose to panic than commanding and pleading then anger. He screamed and cursed and shook his dearest friend to no avail. Only the deaf hollow walls of the ally hearing him.

"Sherlock, please! You bastard, you bastard! You're not allowed to die" He sobbed into the dark blue material of the detective's coat. Praying to nothing in particular it was all a dream, that they would get to the hospital and he'd be fine, and he'd belittle John for getting so emotional and getting tear stains all over his favorite coat. But he knew the truth. It's wasn't supposed to end like this, the greatest mind in all of London probably even the world, wasn't supposed to die in a filthy alley, chocking and gaging on his own fluid. This was a man who chased criminals, who jumped in cabs with serial killers; he jumped from bloody rooftops for Christ sakes he wasn't supposed to fall from them. He wasn't supposed to die like this, it just wasn't…Sherlock. It wasn't fair, it wasn't right. And the facts were there, he couldn't escape them, this revelation caused him to weep harder, and shake his head like a stubborn child not wanting to admit it. He couldn't lose this man, not him, not Sherlock. But it was the truth, and Sherlock had always taught him you had to look at the facts no matter how unpleasant the reality was;

The great figure of Sherlock Holmes was still in his best and only friend's arms.

…

So I don't know about you but I had chills at the end of watching this episode. There were some really brilliant moments; when Sherlock was talking to Molly, the roof scene between Moriarty and Sherlock and the last conversation between Sherlock and John. Then John at the grave, oh my gosh. Excellent writing and absolutely superb acting! Anyway I have a hug list and strangle list for the characters.

Hug: Molly, Sherlock, Moriarty (yes I know he was the reason for Sherlock's 'death' but he was very funny) and most of all poor poor John!

Strangle: Mycroft! (you fool!), Donavon, Anderson, even Lestrade just for being stupid.

***CHAPTER TWO WILL BE POSTED TOMORROW***


	2. Chapter 2 Fair

Just a few bad words in this chapter, just to let you know in case you're sensitive to that sort of thing.

…

John had seen war, he'd seen men beg for their lives and be given the cold shoulder by any higher power that was out there. He'd seen much death and suffering. He was under no illusion that life was fair. But it didn't stop the feeling of anger, as he couldn't shake the thought of just how unfair this all was.

The greatest mind of all time taken away, and the world kept spinning. Of course he didn't expect an earthquake or flood or the end of all days but something. For the wind that rustled the trees like whispers to one another silent their chatter for just a moment, for someone somewhere in the world pause for half a second, sensing, somehow sensing the great loss that was suffered. A traffic light to turn red, a pause in breath, a ripple in a pound, something out of place. Some shift no matter how small.

He looked out the window angry at the people that walked by unfazed and ignorant, when one should weep for humanity. For something, someone, irreplaceable in every sense of the word, was gone. John looked up begrudgingly at the sun as it hung like a glowing ornament in the clear vibrant sky. He wasn't asking for a storm or hurricane but did it really have to be so bright. So fucking _bright_! Someone out there must have a really twisted sense of humor; John laughed to himself no trace of humor in it. The pompous ass would have loved to hear him go on like that.

He got out of the taxi paid the cabbie and walked up to the church doors, he shifted uncomfortable as he scanned the small gathering. John knew Sherlock wasn't the most popular person with the people that knew him, but he had helped the same people that claimed to hate him. There should have been a line at the door with all the people he had helped. There wasn't. He thought grudging to himself how he had tried to convince Sherlock in his finale hours how much he meant to people, he knew Sherlock would probably be lecturing him on how he now had sufficient evidence to the contrary of John's claims and that one should never twist facts just because the reality is less appealing than what we want to see. He smiled a bitter sweet smile at the thought of his friend, damn him. John shut his eyes tight immersed in his thoughts. A hand startled him out from his troubled mind.

"Hello John."

"Oh hello Greg"

"How are you holding up" The inspector detective asked sympathetically. John shrugged his shoulders.

"Well, you know."

"I know. The yard is certainly suffering" Lestrade tried to laugh lightning the mood but it somehow made John even angrier.

"That's all he was too you guys, a case solver wasn't he. You never even liked him did you, never respected him" Lestrade looked down for a moment then looked John right in the eye.

"I respected him more than anyone else I've ever known on the force."

After a tense moment John sighed, "I'm sorry it's just…"

"I know." Greg squeezed his shoulder sympathetically.

"So where are the rest of them, Anderson and Donavon?" John couldn't help keep the bitterness out of his voice when he said their names already knowing the answer. Lestrade looked down almost seeming ashamed.

"They couldn't make it"

"Of course they couldn't" John rolled on his heels and looked around the small chapel awkwardly, "Well it's probably for the best…I'm sure Sherlock wouldn't want them here anyway" They allowed themselves a small forced chuckle at that. John personally didn't want them there either; Donavon was a cow and Anderson a proper dick.

"Excuse me" Greg cleared his throat and walked away. John barely noticed looking over at the few faces. There was Mycroft looking very staunch and emotionless in the corner his hands clasped in from of him. John had half a mind to walk over there and deck him right in the jaw for even having the audacity to show up. But he took a deep breath and flexed his fists, trying to get himself under control, he was in a church and at a funeral it wasn't decent, although he was sure Sherlock would probably have enjoyed it. He felt a brief flash of sympathy, he knew despite everything Sherlock was his brother. Then there was Miss Hudson, one of the few land ladies' that would have ever put up with Sherlock, for that she was a saint. Not to mention Sherlock adored her even if he wouldn't admit it. Her eyes were already red and puffy and she had a crumpled tissue in her hand. There was more press outside than actual people that cared about him in the service. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. But then again nothing was.

The service went by, and John sat in the pew thinking of how Sherlock would be making fun of the whole thing and telling him random facts about the people sitting in adjoining seats, like what they had for lunch and their biggest fears. Then he was startled out of his distant thoughts like waking from a dream by the sound of his name being called. It was his turn to speak.

He hadn't really planed anything to say. What could there be said, Sherlock was far greater and complex than mere words could describe, it would almost be insulting. He was one of the greatest mysteries too illustrious to be pegged down by such things as words, trivial and ambiguous adjectives. Sherlock Holmes was something you experienced not described. And to have actually know the man and been his friend had been one of the greatest honors and happiest times in his life. After realizing his mouth was merely hanging open like a fish and not forming words he quickly shut it. He looked down at the ugly carpet took a deep breath and tried again.

"Sherlock Holmes was a grea…"John suddenly thought back to a conversation he had had with the inspector and shook his head

"Was a good man."

/

After the service John stood out in the infuriatingly god damned sunny day, at the grave stone. It was made from shiny black marble. Cold and hard and ordinary, stuck in the dirt. It made John sick knowing it was a name tag for the person underneath it. So many planted bones beneath his feet, but nothing living, no flowers rose around it. His stomach churned with the idea of his friend beneath the mud and dirt that people stepped on, he wanted to get to his knees and pull up the ruble because it couldn't be Sherlock under there! He couldn't be dead! And if it were him under there he couldn't breathe, he needed air! John could hear the blood pounding in his ears and tried to take deep breathes to calm his breathing before he threw up or passed out. He paced nervously, his hand dropping to his side then going up to his mouth a few times.

"Sherlock…" He began then had to stop, he already felt exaughsted and put his hands on his knees.

"Sherlock you infuriating dick you" He scrubbed his shaking hand over his face and slowly growing stubble. "You can't be dead. London will fall; I don't know what we'll do without you. There are still mysteries to be solved bad guys to be caught, or _villains_ probably as you'd call them. Lord knows the Scotland Yard can't catch them" He laughed despite the moisture growing in his eyes. "Lestrade needs you, Miss Hudson needs you. I need you!"

"You know I'd give up my sleep to hear you play on that blasted violin of yours at all ungodly hours, I'd give up my fridge space just to see another of your creepy body parts, I'd give up my dates, they never work out any way. I'd give up everything, because all those things are better than what I was ever stupid enough to want or thought I wanted. Just…just don't be dead." The salty tears slipped down his dry cheeks and to the ground, but still now flowers came, Sherlock was still gone. The world was still unfair.

/

When John finally got back to the flat he must have stood in the door way a good five minutes.

Fearing he would defile something sacred by walking in, decimate the last remainders of something lost.

There was a stagnate chill as he walked in the room, the kind that seeps into your bones, and makes you feel empty. The idea, the feeling of loss wouldn't give him peace, like a weed it stretched itself throughout him and wrapped itself tightly around his brain and heart. He sat down heavily in his chair feeling every ach and creek in his muscles. He rubbed his eyes tiredly, when his gaze set on the beautiful long grey jacket, with the infuriating collar, and single red stich, with the large double breasted buttons. It lacked a certain character sitting all alone, when it had once seemed larger than life when attached to its owner. And siting neatly on top was the dark blue scarf. Miraculously they hadn't gotten blood on them and were salvageable.

John knew he would have to start getting rid of things eventually, (which just the thought of made him feel even more tired) but he couldn't get rid of those. He walked over to them cautiously at an angle as if they would jump away if he got to close. Hesitant fingers reached out a few time before snatching up the blue material.

He walked back over to his chair and sat it on the arm. Ah _Sherlock. _He ran his fingers gingerly over the familiar material; finding it soothing. The doctor looked up to see rain sliding down his window. Like liquid morphine it distorted and numbed the outside world, and he found it strangely addicting and entrancing. London must have finally gotten the message. John fell into a fit full sleep. With the empty chair across from him in and empty flat with a seemingly empty life filled with to the brim with anything but what was fair.

Sherlock stood on the other side drenched in the falling rain, staring in at 221B.

…

Ok I promise next chapter will be happier. Tell me what you think. This is my first Sherlock fic and it doesn't even have a lot of Sherlock in it yet so I'm not sure how it's going haha. Please review and let me know


	3. Chapter 3 Falling

Thank you so much to those who read/reviewed my story; It means a lot. I hope you enjoy.

….

Good bye John, he said and for the first time ever John could hear Sherlock's voice thick with tears.

The demon lay dead on the roof and the angle flung himself off the edge hurdling towards the ordinary people. But he couldn't fly; he twisted and struggled against the air like a bird with a broken wing. He fell from what seemed to be the heavens and for what seemed to be ages until he hit the street with a sickening crack!

John screamed but nothing came out, he took off in a sprint towards his friend but the distance got farther and farther it felt as if he were moving backwards. But he could see the crumbled form of Sherlock perfectly , his hallo shattered upon the ground and leaked gold that turned crimson; the blood pooled by johns feet as it flooded the road in brilliant streaks of red that went on for miles in every direction. Then a mob of people crowded the angle and called him a man, claiming he couldn't fly, he was a fraud they shouted. Can't you see his wings! Why didn't he just fly? Why did he have to fall?

He wasn't a sham like they said John knew he wasn't, he wasn't just an ordinary boy trying on cleverly made wings overly zealous to show them off until he flew to high. The wax didn't melt; they weren't fake. He wasn't just an ordinary fool, he was an extraordinary man. But why did he do it! Why didn't he fly! The word burned hot in the walls of his mind, first as a whisper then it was shouting until it was a terrifying crescendo of WHY! But surely Sherlock couldn't hear him over the people and the screaming, he had to get to him, to ask him. But he was moving further away, he got to his knees trying to crawl from the invisible force pulling him back. He scraped his fingernails along the ground and shouted "But he's my friend!" But the people's lies and the 'whys' just got louder and louder so no one could hear him.

John woke with a start, breathing hard and drenched in sweat. When having a nightmare the most terrifying part is when you believe what's happening is actually true, but most of the time one has the good fortune and the relief to wake up knowing it was just the twisted product of their subconscious. John woke up with the reality that he was alone in his flat, and his best friend was dead. He got up and stretched out his sore muscles.

_I could use a walk. _He decided not caring to stay alone in the dusty room all day. John pulled on his jacket and as a last minute decision stuck Sherlock's scarf in the pocket of it. The air was thick and the pavement damp from the rain the previous night. He tried to ignore the newspaper stands, with the slander and fallacies strewn across the front pages. **From Hero To Sham The 'Great Detective' Commits Suicide. **John tried to ignore the whispers and chatter as people gossiped on the corners. He tries to ignore all of it and does a pretty damn good job until he hears something that makes his blood boil. Two gent's were standing by a newspaper dispenser when he heard one of them say,

"Yeah I knew him; I met him a few times." John stopped and against his better judgment he turned around and confronted the sod.

"Excuse me, what did you just say?" The man mistook this for curiosity and thought he was impressed, so he answered with his chest puffed out and a slimy grin on his face.

"The fake detective in the newspapers, the one that offed himself, I knew him"

"No you didn't!" John laughed furiously, "You can say whatever the hell you want too about him, it's all rubbish but go ahead, a sham a freak a fraud, you tell everyone and believe whatever the hell you want about him, but how dare you! How dare you say you _knew_ him, how dare you even entertain the idea you knew anything about him. No one truly knew that man, he was far more complex and brilliant and…good…for anyone to truly know him. Until you have lived his life and seen through his eye you will never have had the honor of knowing that man that was worth ten times what you'll ever be." The men just gawked at him in shock, and he took off before they had time to be offended, not that he cared either way.

John shoved his hand in his pocket and grabbed on to the scarf with all his strength, his knuckles turning white around it. He walked in this fashion all the way to 221b and as if on auto pilot he didn't even remember how he got back. John let out a shaky breathe that seemed to be swallowed by the thick tainted smog around him. In that moment standing in front of the door he came to the chilling realization, there was nothing else. Not behind the door and not outside of it that he wanted. There was nothing left. And it was a humbling and devastating thought. That life was full, over flooding, teeming over the edge…with emptiness. He wanted to scream and he wanted to cry; but there was no point, no one would hear him, for the world was asleep, when it used to be so alive, a battlefield of terrors and wonders and adventures. Yes he wanted to curse and fall to his knees, but there was no point, he'd just keep falling through the emptiness, he could shred his dignity and beg till he was blue in the face but it wouldn't change a thing. _He'd _still be gone. So instead John opened the door, and then froze to his spot.

"Hello John, I believe you have my scarf"

…

I know this chapter was little dull but I promise it will get better. Please review and let me know what you think. Thanks


	4. Chapter 4 Flying

Gosh I just want to thank all of you so much for taking the time to leave me such kind reviews. It really does mean a lot. So I kept going back and rewriting the chapter because it was never turning out quite how I wanted it (arggh) but here it is nonetheless I hope you guys enjoy it. Maybe let me know what you think? Thanks again, enjoy.

….

John felt frozen. Had he finally fallen? Had time really shattered; was he dead, could he be happy now? Or was this some sick twisted game his mind was playing on him. John felt as if he had walked into another universe at a different time and was now suspended in the fine muddled strings separating hope and reality. He couldn't move; there was an unbearable influx in the gravitational pull and he couldn't move, couldn't breathe, and couldn't think. He could only feel, the strange inexplicable and haunting feeling one gets when they've wanted something with every inch of their being but cannot comprehend the possibility of it coming true. No, he couldn't move and he wasn't so sure he wanted too; he feared that if it really were just a hallucination a figment, a clever play of the lighting it would vanish. If he had just stepped into another dimension the glass would shatter, the closet door would open and the curtain fall. He would be gone. Again. And there was no way John could live through loosing that man twice.

"John" Sherlock began hesitantly, his voice horse and thick. It was still the voice that could only belong to Sherlock. Then it broke, and snapped, and ricocheted off the walls…the last few pieces of John's control. He began to hyperventilate and pace madly on his side of the room. Sherlock was a level headed man and although he had been put through the hardest situation he had ever faced he was still Sherlock; a master at hiding the little fear he possessed. But now he could honestly say he was frightened, seeing his friend unravel out of control and fall apart like pulling on a rouge string and undoing a blanket. And the part that burned the most was it was all his fault.

"John" He tried again as level and calm as he possibly could.

"Jesus Christ! Oh shit! Oh shit oh shit!" John was full on panicking now, he had seen some horrible things in his life, things that would make weaker men shut down but this…this was enough to break anyone, this couldn't be real, and it wasn't fair.

"John It's ok." Sherlock tried to comfort but to his momentary shock, it had very much the opposite effect. I'm really not on my game today. John looked at him with those piercing eyes, they were not the ones he were used to though, no these were hard and cold, and John never used that look with him. Frustration, anger, hell flat out pissed, but never hatred. And suddenly falling from a building seemed preferable. John lunged himself at the other man and despite the height difference he knocked him to the ground with ease. Sherlock tried to remain as contained and logical as one could me with an irate ex-military man on top of them. John lifted his arm and brought down his fist as hard as he could on Sherlock's cheek.

"John" He tried again, he had sustained much worse injury's from criminals before but this was different. If there wasn't a possibility of John hurting himself in his frenzied state and rage against him, he would simple let the man attack him as much as he needed to get it out of his system. This wasn't the case, so Sherlock tried to look him in the eye; he focused his foggy pools of blue on John, telling him what he could never have the ability to say through words. I'm here.

John at this point was holding very tightly to the collar of Sherlock's wrinkled and muddied shirt. He went to shake him a few times, but with a weakness that couldn't have been fuelled with anger.

"How" The words caught in his throat and he was suddenly aware of the tears he felt sliding down his face unashamed. "How do you know its ok?"

"Because I will do everything in my power to make it that way." Sherlock said without wavering, the way he said things he was certain of and knew he couldn't be wrong.

"It is you" John half laughed and sobbed in relief. "Sherlock, it's you." He said sounding out the name after it had lied dormant on his tongue wanting to spring free for far too long.

"Yes."

"I knew…I knew you couldn't have died. Sherlock Holmes would never just step off a building and die." He laughed the feeling vibrating through his chest and filling him with a strange sense of happiness. But Sherlock's face was much more sullen as he looked down at the carpet to the side of John.

"I would" It was so quite John wasn't even sure if he really heard it.

"Excuse me?"

"I would have if there was no other way."

"What are you talking about Sherlock?" The taller man gently sat up and grabbed Johns hands helping him slide off from on top of him. They sat there on the floor staring at each other, Sherlock had yet to let go of John's hands studying them intently.

"If there was no way to fake it, I would have jumped from that building without a second thought."

"Sherlock, I don't understand what are you talking about?" Sherlock sighed and untangled his hand from John to rub at his exhausted blood shot eyes.

"I'm so sorry. I must have underestimated the effect this would have on you."

John could see his vision turn red again, "You think Sherlock! Gee I wonder what gave you that idea! Do you have any idea how this has affected all of us! Affected me!"

"It is preferable to having you dead" Sherlock explained trying not to be defensive.

"What?" John stopped mid rant, and swallowed the lump of dread that had been rising in his throat.

"_He_ was going to…he was going to…kill…all of you. Unless I killed myself of course. Miss Hudson, Lestrade…you"

"That's why you didn't fly" John whispered to himself, feeling the heavy burden of the question lift.

"Pardon" The detective quirked a dark eyebrow.

"Nothing. So you…you did this so save us? To save me?"

"Of course" Sherlock looked at him as if it were the most obvious answer, much like he often did.

"I know it's not really my field of expertise but isn't that what friends do, for each other?"

"You mean try to trick an evil mastermind, jump off a roof plummet to almost certain death, and then when they don't die go through an elaborate scheme of faking their own death and running away?"

"Not exactly, but more or less." Sherlock just stared at him with those wide expectant eyes, clearly not seeing the intended sarcasm.

"Sure. Well that's at least what you do. " John smiled at his best friend and he couldn't help but flash him a brilliant smile back. John gave his friend a thorough look for the first time sense he found him in the flat; he now saw the purple a blue bruises that painted his cheeks painfully against the thinner and paler than usual alabaster canvas. His suite was torn, soiled, and rumbled, his hair a mess and his eyes (when he wasn't paying attention) betrayed sleepless nights. Yet he still held a sense of dignity and grace about him.

"What happened to you" John reached out his fingers hovering above the bruises as he examined them until a guilty feeling sunk into the pit of his stomach.

"Oh John don't look at me like that, it's not the first time you've hit me" He smiles no accusation in his voice, "Besides some of them were there before you got a shot at it."

"Jesus Sherlock, what…" he began again but stopped when the detective looked away, a dark look set in his features.

"Living is hard when you're _dead_." There wasn't anything entirely sentimental about the statement and yet it very much was. John nodded his head, understanding.

"Come on then, let's get you cleaned up" Sherlock looked as if he were going to put up a fight when John threw him a warning glare getting him to comply. John turned away getting his medical bag a smug grin on his face.

"So how…how did you do it? I mean you were in my arms…and you…" What had originally been intended as an innocent question made them both cringe with the memory.

"It, it's tedious to explain John" Sherlock sighed rubbing his hand over his eyes. John was tempted to snap at him and demand the explanation that he deserves, but relented, knowing that with Sherlock he'll come around in his own time and explain when he wants too. Sherlock's stare was distant but calculating, the eyes were blank but John could see the cogs twisting in the complicated maze of machinery that was the man's brain.

"You believed me…Why?"

"Excuse me?"

"You believed me when no one else did. They all thought I was a fraud, and happy to do so. It was so easy for them all to doubt me, that's what happens when you present lies wrapped in truths. But what if there were more truths than lies, what if it was so believable because it simply was the truth. What if I'm not what you think I am John Watson? What if I'm not all I thought I was?" He whispered the last part, not daring to meet John's eyes for deep shame and hatred for the moisture growing in his own. The few people he dared to trust betrayed him, but not John. His world was falling apart, and people turned on him on the instinct of self-preservation, but never John.

"I'm so sorry." His voice trembled, and oh how he despised it for doing so. John acted on instinct and did something he would normally be more than apprehensive to do with his friend. He wrapped his arms awkwardly around the shoulders of the man, who was thankfully siting instead of towering over him.

"John?" Sherlock asked sounding equal parts perplexed and amused.

"Shut up Sherlock." The detective quirked a grin and leaned in slightly to his arms.

"You're not what everyone thought you were, you're not what you thought you were." John whispered into the finally circulating air of the flat after weeks of it being un-breathable. Sherlock stiffened in his arms at this but John just continued.

"Your. So. much. More."

Sherlock swallowed his walls temporarily down, the gate door down and allowing access across the mote.

"I have missed you John, your also a lot quicker than I remember" They shared a laugh, John's a light giggle and Sherlock's his throaty chuckle.

"And you're slower"

"Oh really, how so?" The genius challenged crossing his arms.

"Well you were wrong about something else as well; let's see how many times is that now…" John said smugly pretending to calculate the number in his head.

"I really need to stop making a habit of that" he huffed disgruntled "What is it exactly that I'm wrong about this time."

"There are heroes." Sherlock let the words settle for a moment before smiling at john and with all honesty said

"Oh I know John Watson, I know." John's eyes widened at the implication, quite touched and honored.

The soft lazy light that petered through the window had shifted to shine just above Sherlock's head, like a divine light, and his arms on either side of him casted large shadows against the wall behind him.

John knew he wouldn't always be this inexplicably happy, that such things never lasted long, but none of it mattered, because Sherlock was here. He had performed yet another miracle.

_He flew_, against all odds and all the weight he _flew_

Sherlock had given him the miracle he wanted more than anything else.

And knowing Sherlock it wouldn't be his last either.

…

Annnd I think that's all for this fic. guys, I hope you liked it. Maybe I will write a sequel where Sherlock confronts his brother or something I'm not sure. But if you're interested I am currently working on another Sherlock fic right now and the first chapter is posted. Thanks again


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